Tickled to Death and Other Stories of Crime and Suspense (19 page)

“And can we get rid of that bloody dog?” A uniformed policeman ushered the reluctant Yorkshire terrier out of the study. “Oh, and get us some tea while you're at it, could you, Constable?” The Inspector smiled perfunctorily. “Now let's just get a few facts straight. You are Mr and Mrs Alcott?”

The two heads nodded curt agreement.

“And this is your house?”

Two more nods.

“And, Mr Alcott, you have no doubt that the dead man is your business partner, Mr Cruikshank?”

Alcott's head, rising tortoise-like from the top of the Teapot, twitched from side to side. “No doubt at all.”

“He had been wearing the clown costume all evening?”

“Yes. It's one of our most popular lines. As partners, we always try to demonstrate both the traditional and the new. Mr Cruikshank was wearing one of Festifunn's oldest designs, while I—” Unconsciously, he smoothed down the Teapot frame with his spout. “—chose one of the most recent.” He gestured proudly to the Pillar-box. “My wife's is also a new design.”

Some response seemed to be required. The Inspector murmured, “Very nice too”, which he hoped was appropriate.

“And your guests?”

“They're all dressed in our lines too.”

“Yes. That wasn't actually what I was going to ask. I wished to enquire about your guest list. Are all the people here personal friends?”

“Not so much friends as professional associates,” replied the Teapot tartly.

“So they would all have known Mr Cruikshank?”

“Oh, certainly. Mr Cruikshank always made a point of getting to know our staff and clients personally.” The Teapot's tone implied disapproval of this familiarity.

“So I would be correct in assuming that this Fancy Dress Party is a business function?”

The Teapot was vehement in its agreement with this statement. The party was very definitely part of Festifunn's promotional campaign, and as such (though this was implied rather than stated) tax-deductible.

“You don't think we do this for fun, do you?” asked the crumpled Pillar-box.

“No, of course we don't.” The Teapot assumed an accent of self-denying righteousness. “It's just an opportunity to demonstrate the full range of our stock to potential customers. And also it's a kind of thank-you to the staff. Something that I wouldn't do voluntarily, I hasten to add, but something they demand these days as a right. And one daren't cross them. Even the novelty industry,” he concluded darkly, “is not immune to the destructive influence of the trade unions.”

“But presumably everyone has a good time?”

Mr Alcott winced at the Inspector's suggestion. “The Fancy Dress Party was not originally my idea,” he said in further self-justification.

“Mr Cruikshank's,” Walsh deduced smoothly.

“Yes.”

“Then why is it held in your house?”

“Have you recently examined the cost of hiring outside premises?”

“I meant why not in Mr Cruikshank's house?”

The Pillar-box tutted at the idea. “Mr Cruikshank's house would be totally unsuitable for a function of this nature. It's a terrible mess, full of odd machinery and designs he's working on . . . most unsalubrious. I'm afraid his style of living, too, is—was—most irregular. He drank, you know.”

The Inspector let that go for the moment. “Mr Alcott, would you say Mr Cruickshank had any enemies?”

“Well . . .”

“I mean, did he tend to annoy people?”

“Certainly.”

“In what way?”

“Well, I have no wish to speak ill of the dead . . .”

“But?”

“But Mr Cruikshank was . . .” The Teapot formed the words with distaste. “. . . a practical joker.”

“Ah.” The Inspector smiled. “Good thing to be in your line of business.”

“By no means,” the Teapot contradicted. “Most unsuitable.”

Again Walsh didn't pursue it. Time enough for that. “Right now, I would like from you a list of your guests before I start interviewing them.” He took a notebook from his pocket, then turned round to the desk and picked up a pencil that lay beside an old-fashioned biscuit-barrel.

“Well, there's Mr Brickett, our Sales Manager . . .”

Inspector Walsh bent to write the name down. The pencil squashed softly against the paper. It was made of rubber.

“I'm sorry. That's one of our BJ153s. Joke Pencil—Many Minutes of Mirth.”

“Ah.”

At that moment the uniformed constable arrived with the tea-tray. The three helped themselves and then, when the Inspector again looked round for something to write with, the Teapot said, “There's a ball-point pen just the other side of the biscuit-barrel.”

“Thank you.” The Inspector picked it up to continue his list.

“Sugar?” the Pillar-box offered, adding righteously, “We don't.”

“Well, I do.” He took two lumps, put them in the tea, and reached for a spoon. When he looked back, the lumps of sugar were floating in the top of his cup.

“I'm sorry, Inspector,” said the Teapot. “You've got some of our GW34s. Silly Sugar—Your Friends Will Be Tickled To Death.”

The young man looked sheepish. Since he was dressed as a sheep, this wasn't difficult.

“Might I ask, Mr O'Brien . . .” Despite the request for permission, Inspector Walsh was clearly going to ask anyway. “. . . why you went out to the greenhouse at the time that you discovered the body?”

“Well, I . . . er . . . well, um . . .” the young man bleated.

“I think you'd do better to tell me,” Walsh advised portentously.

“Yes. Well, the fact was, I was . . . um, there was a young lady involved.”

“You mean a young lady was with you when you found Mr Cruikshank?”

“No. No, no, she was still in the house, but I was . . . er . . . sort of scouting out the . . . er . . . lie of the land. Do I make myself clear?”

“No.”

“Oh. Am I going to have to spell it out?”

“Yes.”

“Well, you see, this young lady and I are . . . er . . . rather good friends. I'm at Festifunn in Indoor Firework Testing and she's in Fancy Dress Design, so we see quite a lot of each other and . . . er . . . you know how it is . . .”

The Inspector nodded indulgently, awaiting further information.

“Unfortunately, her father doesn't approve of our . . . er, er . . . friendship. He thinks, as a profession, Indoor Fireworks is too . . . er . . . volatile. And my landlady's a bit old-fashioned, so we can only really meet at work, or in secret . . .”

“Yes?”

“Which, I mean, is okay. It works all right, but it sometimes leads to complications. Like tonight.”

“What happened tonight?”

“Well, um . . .” Insofar as it is possible for a sheep to blush, the Sheep blushed. “You see, it comes down to . . . sex.”

“It often does,” Walsh observed sagely.

“Yes. Well, um . . . do I really have to tell you this?”

“Yes.”

“Right. Well, normally we . . . um . . . go into my car for . . . um . . .”

“I understand.”

“Thank you. But you see, this is where feminine vanity raises problems. At least it did tonight. You see, my friend, as any woman would, was anxious to look her best for the party and, since she works in Fancy Dress Design, nothing would stop her from coming in her latest creation. No woman could resist such an opportunity to show off her skills.”

“No,” Walsh agreed with a worldly shake of his head. “And may I ask what your friend is dressed as?”

“An Orange,” the Sheep replied miserably.

“Ah.”

“And I've only got a Mini.”

“I begin to understand why you were checking out the greenhouse, Mr O'Brien.”

The Sheep looked, if it were possible, even more sheepish.

“And what happened to the trifle?”

“The top flipped off, there was a loud squeak, and I saw the mouse in the bottom of the dish.”

“Would that be a real mouse?” Inspector Walsh asked cautiously.

Joan of Arc was so surprised at the question that she removed the cigarette which drooped from her generously lipsticked mouth. “No, a rubber one. It's just the basic BT3, Squeaking Mouse, incorporated into the HM200, Tricky Trifle.”

“Oh, I see. And Mr Cruikshank offered it to you?”

“Yes. I shouldn't have fallen for it. Good Lord, I handle half a dozen HM200s a day in the shop. But it was a party, you know, I wasn't concentrating—perhaps even a bit tiddly.” She simpered. “Honestly, me—a couple of Babychams and I'm anybody's.”

She moved her body in a manner calculated to display her bosom (a wasted effort for someone dressed in complete armour).

“I see,” said Inspector Walsh again, more to change the subject than for any other reason. “Why I'm asking about the incident, Mrs Dancer, is because we believe you may have been the last person—except, of course, for his murderer—to see Mr Cruikshank alive.”

“Oh, fancy that.”

“And handing you the Tricky Trifle may have been his last action before his death.”

“Good Lord.” Joan of Arc paused, then set her painted face in an expression of piety, as if prepared to hear voices. “Oh well, I'm glad I fell for it then. It's how he'd have wanted to go.”

“I'm sorry?”

She elaborated. “He loved his jokes, Mr Cruikshank did. He designed almost all the novelties at Festifunn. Always working on something new. His latest idea was a customized Jack-in-a-Box. Really novel. Clown pops out when the box opens and a personal recorded message starts up. You know, you get different ones—jolly for kids' parties, fruity for stag nights, and so on.

“Full of ideas, Mr Cruikshank always was. Really loved jokes. So, you see, I'm glad about the Tricky Trifle. Because if he had to die, he'd have been really chuffed to die after catching someone out with one of his own novelties.”

The Inspector was tempted to ask how anyone could be “chuffed” while being suffocated by a custard pie, but contented himself with another “I see.” (In his early days as a detective, Walsh had worried about how often he said “I see” during interrogations, but long since he had come to accept it as just an occupational hazard.) “And before this evening, Mrs Dancer, when did you last see Mr Cruikshank?”

“Well, funnily enough, I saw him this afternoon.”

“Ah.”

“Yes, he came into the shop.”

“Was that unusual?”

“Not unusual for him to come in, no—he liked to keep in touch with what was happening in the business—but unusual for him to come in two days running.”

“I see. What did he come in for?”

“Oh, a chat. See how the stock was going. He was particularly worried about the Noses. Always get a run on Noses this time of year. We're very low on Red Drunken and Warty Witch's—and completely out of Long Rubbery.”

“Oh dear,” the Inspector commiserated. “And this afternoon, when Mr Cruikshank came into the shop, did you notice anything unusual about him?”

“No.” Joan of Arc stubbed her cigarette out on her cuirass as she reconsidered this answer. But she didn't change her mind. “No. Well, he had a knife through his head, but—”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Knife-Through-Head—JL417. As opposed to Tomahawk-Through-Head—JL418—and Nail-Through-Head—JL419.”

“Uhuh.” Curiosity overcame Inspector Walsh's customary reserve. “Which one of those is the most popular?”

“Oh, 417,” Joan of Arc replied without hesitation. “Sell a few Nails, but very little call for Tomahawks these days. It's because they're not making so many Westerns—all these space films instead. Mr Cruikshank was trying to come up with a Laser-Beam-Through-Head, but it's not as easy as it sounds.”

“No, I suppose not.” Walsh digested this gobbet of marketing information before continuing. “And did Mr Cruikshank often come into the shop with a knife through his head?”

“Yes. Well, that or some other novelty. Boil-On-Face, Vampire Teeth, Safety-Pin-Through-Nose, that sort of thing. Lived for his work, Mr Cruikshank.”

“And he didn't say anything strange that afternoon?”

“No.” She pondered. “Well, yes, I suppose he did, in a way.”

“Ah.”

“He said he'd come to say goodbye.”

“Goodbye?”

“Yes, he said someone was out to kill him, and he didn't think he'd live more than twenty-four hours.”

Walsh sat bolt-upright. “What! Did he say who was out to kill him?”

“Oh yes.” Joan of Arc reached casually into her habergeon and brought out a packet of Players Number Six. She put one in her mouth, reached past the biscuit-barrel and picked up a box of matches. She opened it and a green snake jumped out. “BK351,” she said dismissively.

“Mrs Dancer, who?
Who
did he say was out to kill him?”

“Oh, Mr Alcott.”

“But that's terribly important. Why on earth didn't you mention it before?”

“Oh, I thought it was just another of Mr Cruikshank's jokes.”

“So what did you do when he told you?”

“Oh, I just offered him some Squirting Chocolate and went back to stock-taking the Severed Fingers.”

“You have to understand that I'm a professional accountant . . .” The Baby self-importantly hitched up his nappy and adjusted the dummy-string around his neck. “. . . and I am bound by a code of discretion in relation to the affairs of my clients.”

“This
is
a police investigation, Mr McCabe . . .”

“I am aware of that, Inspector Walsh.”

“. . . into the most serious crime one human being can commit against another.”

“Yes.”

“So I suggest you save time and answer all my questions as fully as possible.”

“Oh, very well.” With bad grace, the Baby threw his rattle on to the desk and sat down.